Shaking his head and lowering the glasses, he turned his bloodshot, salt sprayed eyes back towards the inner harbour, the soldiers of the Highlanders, 4th Battalion, Royal Regiment of Scotland erecting defensive stone and steel barricades along the waterfront walls, the captain grinning as he glimpsed several local youths and residents assisting. Several heavy machine guns and sandbagged positions were already evident, a number of high powered cannon muzzles and three anti-aircraft batteries situated at the end of side streets, the thoroughfares now blocked to traffic.
All along the North Sea coast, the actions had been repeated virtually all day, soldiers and cadets preparing makeshift defensive positions, reinforced with artillery and missile batteries, nervous officers staring through binoculars out to sea, watching fishing vessels and a few pleasure craft hurrying back to shore. The Royal Navy was warning the seafarers through loudspeakers of the ultimate danger that was now only a few miles away, servicemen scrutinising the waves in fear through high powered military glasses.
Seagulls cawed loudly above, their small white bodies buffeted in the rising breeze, the birds circling the harbour in anticipation of an incoming fresh catch and any discarded fish that were deemed inappropriate for sale to local processing plants and restaurants from the quayside…this afternoon was different, the scavengers would be disappointed.
The army unit had been surprised by the welcome on a chilly, grey mist filled morning, the people of Peterhead spilling out onto the streets as the green camouflaged column had entered the city, waving and cheering welcoming the bleary eyed soldiers in the back of lorries, many of the people on the pavements in their dressing gowns and pyjamas with jackets over their shoulders.
Upon parking the armoured cars and lorries in squares and side streets, the infantrymen had added netting for further concealment, unloading supplies and ammunition for the assigned troops that marched towards the harbour. Locals ventured out with numerous cups of tea and coffee, some even offering sandwiches and cakes for the working soldiers, the men stunned by the generosity provided.
Plates of food were still forthcoming in the harbour, but in greater abundance, the quayside public houses calling their chefs in early to prepare dishes for the soldiers, opening their bars for locals as many came to see the defensive preparations, patrons drinking pints of Tennent’s Lager and whisky outside in the early afternoon chill, their heavy jackets protecting them from a heavy cold North Sea breeze.
The captain smiled fondly as he realised a traditional spirit of community had probably returned, perhaps the lack of mobile internet, calls and social media adding to the open bonding he witnessed, people talking and chatting to each other, several still occasionally retrieving and studying their unresponsive mobile handsets briefly in dismay. His eyes moved to the rooftops, smoke snaking upwards from several chimneys before dispersing quickly in the wind as he glimpsed the positioned snipers, most in padded uniforms, the accompanying spotters straining their eyes behind binoculars out to sea.
The officer’s body jumped as two jets swept out low over the harbour, the loud deep sound waves of the engines engulfing the working figures, the captain’s eyes moving upwards as the grey planes banked hard to the north, the fighters promptly disappearing beyond an outcrop of high rock.
Turning to lean his elbows back against the outer harbour wall, he raised the binoculars once more, staring out towards the rising swell of the cold North Sea, large angry waves slapping against the concrete walls below as tiny specks of water splashed against the lenses, his eyes focussing on one of the Royal Navy frigates, the silhouettes of several figures braced against the light grey upper hull.
Skipper Angus MacGregor thrust the accelerator controls forward, the fishing trawler rising and falling dramatically against the ferocity of the turbulent churning cold water, salt water lashing against the small bridge’s windows as he shouted, ‘Just another two hours, we are alone now…there are fish to be caught…then we creep back under darkness.’
His employees could not hear in the wind, their drenched heavy plastic rubber yellow jackets and boots swaying with the ship through the windows as they hauled on the previous catches’ netting, perturbed by the small size if the haul. The skipper swallowed and licked his lips in relish as he heard the motors whine from below, another catch rising from deep in the sea, his anticipation escalating of a successful haul.
Far out in the North Sea, the vessel lurched to the side, a large wave crashing against the hull, water surging across the forward deck as the two crewmen strained against the force, each body tied round the waist and anchored with emergency lines from either side, the nylon ropes tied and bound to robust triple hooks.
Below deck, the fish began to pour from the retracting winding nets on either side, surging along a water drenched channel and falling into the hold below. Three crewmen worked feverishly to grasp the unsuitable gasping specimens, those too small or recognised as restricted and tossing them onto another resin passage to propel the fish back out into sea.
The seafaring men were proud and loyal to their skipper, his expensive alterations to the boat ensuring the maximum amount of unsuitable fish returned to the cold waters alive. All had ultimate respect for the fruits of the sea, not only for their
